His glass was in his right hand, halfway to his mouth. His Colt was in his holster, partway under the table. Zeke’s gun hand was inches from his Smith & Wesson, his thumb hooked in his gun belt. “Any last words?” he said. “Just like this?” Fargo said. “Just like this,” Zeke said. “I don’t back-shoot. I go after someone, I go at them straight up.” “An outlaw with scruples,” Fargo said. He was stalling while he inched his arm lower. “I have a few,” Zeke said. “It comes from being older than Methuselah.” The man didn’t look that old to Fargo. The gray was premature. “Do I get to finish my drink?” “Be my guest,” Zeke said. “As soon as you set the glass down, we’ll get to it.” “What if I don’t set it down?” Fargo said, and threw the glass at the outlaw’s face.
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